On the range.

It’s odd being in Flagstaff.  I’m here but not here.  The social scene hasn’t much changed (although it’s about to, what with Rich, Laura and Matt all taking off), and I fall right back into old patterns, some positive, some negative.  I’m drinking again but I’ve cut way back; no more weekend hangovers (not since I’ve been home, anyway).  Bits of wine here and there, the occasional whiskey with grandma, Matt’s homebrew.  The novel moves painfully slowly, which is infuriating, frustrating and predictable.  I took an excellent workshop with Dinty Moore and produced a Brevity-style 500 word nonfic, and I’m revising up a play for this year’s Playwriting Showcase, so it’s not like I’m not writing.  It’s just not what I thought I’d be writing.

In other news, editing is editing is editing.  The Comma Wars are a go-go, of course, but they’ve been less vicious than usual, which I’m grateful for.  I hope the truce continues.  And I hope I get a book soon, because I’ll get a lot more novel-ing done if my boss will let me go outhouse on the walk-in book.

I scarcely see Sacha at all, which I feel guilty about.  Matt’s moving out of his apartment in a week (to save money for Chicago), so I’ve been completely focused on making that happen, at the expense of the novel, and pretty much everyone else friend-wise.  And Laura leaves in nine days for Kansas City, so I feel an extra-bad friend on all counts.

Blogpost devolve.  But I’m happy and hunkered down, and so long as I can manage to not spend money and keep tapping away at the novel, I’ll be pleased with the summer’s fruits.

Strawberries!

God of small ambitions.

I am 28 today.  I’ve had several conversations with my late twenties/early thirty-something friends about how this is put-up-or-shutup time for creative endeavors.  We’re no longer prodigies, no longer precocious, and having sunk so much time into a given artistic endeavor (writing, in my case), there’s no excuse to not get serious.  If I don’t start seeing some results, I really need to prep for going teaching or editing track post PhD.  Of course, it would help if I SENT STUFF OUT EVER.  I feel like I’ve been slacking and sliding for years now, and I find myself exhausting.  This slacking appears on a variety of fronts, not just writing-wise.  So, it is a birthday, the culturally appointed time (this and New Years’) for reevaluation and goal-setting.  I publicize these so that I feel SOME accountability, even if it’s only to the invisible Internet public.

May-June: rewrite fantasy novel with Rhin.

June-July: Another 150 pages on the memoir, in preparation for workshop in the Fall

July: find Chicago housing and get Matt moved

August: revise my 161 course; prep for TAship

Summer/Fall semester:

revise and submit angel story and Goodnow essay to at least five places.  Workshop and revise memoir.

Polish novel coverletter, and if book is actually done this time, try sending out to agents.

Apply to at least two conferences, and try for funding.

Set up exam lists.  Tentatively hoping for a Latin American/magical realism list and/or a feminist fantasy list.  The trauma theory paper I’m pretty certain about.  Urrea, Huntington, and Mazza are the hopeful dream-team; this is all likely to be revised and changed as dates approach for me locking this up, though.  I’d love to work with Canuel and Michaels, too, but that’s ambitious even for me.  I’ve heard good things about Lisa Freeman, Madha Dubey and Chris Messenger, too–going to depend on if their research interests align with mine.

The dream of dreams?  An agent and two pubs by this time next year, and an exam list that excites me.  It’s a high bar, and I’ll likely fail, but why the hell not try?

Peripheral goals:

Stop eating like a student (I have not eaten this badly since undergrad OMFG).  Spend less, save more.  Exercise, of course (I’ve been better this year, but still not good enough–I love the free aerobics classes at school…gotta get better about making it to them).   Drink less (yes, I plan to be VERY BORING this year.  I am okay with this).  Get me and the boy happily ensconced in a livable apartment that isn’t an insane commute to campus (boo, teaching @ 9am).

It is a small, cozy life, but that’s about where I’m at, staring down thirty.  I really, really want to have a semblance of an adult life by then.  Have to do the work to get there.

The dead boyfriend was dead at 29.  I don’t know what I’ll do when I’m older than him.